


Bloody Angel

by zombieutopia



Series: Screaming Monsters [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe: Serial Killers, Anal Sex, Blood Play, Blood and Violence, Compulsive Behavior, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Violence, Implied Incest, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Possessive Behavior, Runaway Sam Winchester, Sadistic Castiel (Supernatural), Sastiel - Freeform, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Violence, Suicidal ideation mentioned, The Angel of Vine podcast (referenced), Underage Rape/Non-con, Vaginal Sex, Very Dark!fic, biting kink, dark sastiel, dark!fic, fear kink, okay...a little more than implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-08-10 20:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20141851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombieutopia/pseuds/zombieutopia
Summary: Sam is adrift. Busy drowning himself in anything and everything that helps him forget himself; forget who he is, who he was, his past, and desires. Anything to keep him from thinking or breathing too deep.Castiel is hunting for something new. Something he hasn’t tried yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [outoftheashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/outoftheashes/gifts), [AzrielRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzrielRose/gifts).

> This is a serial killer AU. Graphic depictions of EVERYTHING ahead. Please read the tags! Don’t like ‘em? Turn back now. This is fucked up. I’m aware of that. If you don’t like it, don’t read it. 
> 
> Sam’s age isn’t specified here (hence why this isn’t listed as underage) BUT it is heavily implied that he is. You’ve been warned. 
> 
> Also, while this is primarily a Sastiel fic...if you squint and tilt your head in just the right way you might just see some implied Wincest peeking through here. If you don’t like that...I’m pretty sure if you just squint and tilt you head in the opposite direction, you’ll miss it entirely. Just sayin’
> 
> Edit: This story has cover art! Big thanks to [rw_eaden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rw_eaden) !!!

Castiel puts the car in park and twists the key in the ignition. Despite the hour, despite the weather, this part of the city is still full of movement; people roaming the streets, cars hissing through the rain, businesses open and advertising their after-hours wares with garish neon signs. 

He sits and listens to the low rumble of the engine die off. The silence is sudden. Heavy. A suspended moment of nothing in the dark. There is a tight, familiar, buzzing energy sliding beneath his skin and a pit of reluctance sitting heavy in his gut. This is far from his usual process. It’s a risk. Potentially an unnecessary one, but he needs to try something.

After a second in the stillness, the restless energy wins out over caution. He pops the door open and climbs out, tossing his trench coat and tie on the back seat. The air that seeps into his skin is icy and damp. Bracing. He checks to make sure he has everything he needs before slamming the door shut and setting off down the street. 

There are only a handful of reasons for someone to come down to a place like this at night. It's the type of location Castiel prefers to avoid whenever he can. The gutters are clogged with soggy condoms and used needles. Broken glass grinds and scrapes beneath his heels. He passes homeless and whores by the dozens, wrapped in their mildewed blankets and too-thin clothing, tucked up tight against the side of buildings like so many frostbitten cockroaches. Sex and chemical release, in all their myriad of forms, available on every corner, down every ally, to anyone who can pay.

Its repulsive in its degradation; its filth; its hedonistic, baser behaviors put out on full display. Too blatant. Too public. It's the kind of place that tends to draw far too much attention. He keeps his head down as he walks, ignoring the requests for spare change and offers of a good time. The hentai theaters, the 24 hour coffee shops, and brightly lit convenience stores hold no interest for him, even if he hadn’t known his destination prior to arriving here. 

He can hear it even before he rounds the corner. A muted, thumping bass that bleeds through the walls, filling the night air with the suggestion of music. The building had been a warehouse or some small factory at some point in its past and whoever had repurposed it used that to their advantage. It sits squat and industrial surrounded by newer yet more rundown buildings. Brick walls cheaply painted over in a matte black, security flood lights replaced with red bulbs that do little to illuminate much of anything, glass windows warped and clouded by age and heat. It's trying too hard in its harshness. The kind of place that gives you lead poisoning just by looking in its direction. 

Castiel slows his pace and takes his spot at the back of the line. There are easily a few hundred already waiting ahead of him; milling about the sidewalk and sitting on the curb, smoking and talking and laughing as they wait for the doors to open. There isn’t any pattern to them that he can see. There are college kids, their clothing clean yet intentionally disheveled, making an attempt at slumming it for a night. There are the perpetual partiers with their glow sticks and neon colored clothes. Businessmen with ties loosened huddled together in groups, sports jackets used like armor against the lowliness of their surroundings. Its the reason he chose this location specifically; anonymity. No one looks out of place and everyone is searching for something, all desperate not to be seen while they do. 

It takes the line just over an hour to filter in through the front doors. He’s not used to a long game; unaccustomed to forcing himself to settle in and wait when the need is burning this deep in his veins. He swallows it down and flashes the woman behind the plastic partition a flirty smile as she takes his small wad of bills. She counts it quickly, efficiently, and motions for him to present his hand. It’s the one downfall to choosing a place like this. He sticks his hand through the small hole anyway, holds in his grimace as she presses the stamp firmly into his skin. When she pulls it away, the club’s pentagram and angel wing logo decorates his wrist in black and blue swirls. He thanks her with another smile and a nod before finally making his way into the club.

The place reeks of new sweat and stale beer, thick enough to taste in the humid heat. He pushes through the dense press of bodies towards the only constant light source in the cavernous room: the bar. The crowd moves with the bass of the music, shoving and undulating against him, impeding his progress. When he finally makes it there, it's an almost physical relief. 

He leans against the blue-lit counter and catches the eye of the bartender. She’s older than he prefers. A lot older. But she’s still beautiful; thick, dark hair, dark eyes, and naturally sunkissed skin. Her smile is friendly and rough around the edges, much like her biker-punk appearance. It only adds to her good looks and she knows it.

“Hey doll, what can I getchya?” 

“Gin and tonic, please. Extra lime.” He passes a twenty over the counter.

“Coming right up.” She slaps the bill off the bar and throws him a wink as she turns to make his drink. His eyes linger over her form as she works, but there is no _ urge _ there so he quickly loses interest. Instead he turns his attention to the other options presented to him, searching for someone to spend the night with.

***

Sam throws his head back, spraying sweat out into the crowd. He’s soaked; muscles sweetly aching with constant use, mind hazy. There are no thoughts here. No plans and no worries. Nothing required of him. It’s just the dark synthpop/electronica pulsing through the air and the slide and grind of anonymous body parts. It’s perfect...until the need to piss becomes too much to ignore.

With a sigh he breaks away from his comfortable place in the crowd and moves towards the back of the room, ignoring the hands that reach out to grab and grope and try to suck him back into the morass as he passes through. 

He’s in line for the bathroom when his phone buzzes insistently against his thigh. It must be after midnight. Snaking a hand into his pocket, damp denim making the action much harder than it's really worth, he extracts his phone and stares down at the screen. It says exactly what he knew it would, what it says almost every night at this hour, but that doesn’t stop the sickly ache that floods his chest. “D calling…” flashes on the screen, the red and green buttons glaring up at him, daring him to make a different decision. 

He doesn’t. 

He thumbs the red button and considers for the millionth time just getting it over with, severing that last connection and blocking the number. 

A quick piss at a filthy urinal gives him far too much of a quiet moment to think. He’s too sober to deal with any of it, no matter what the sway in his step suggests, and the vibration announcing a new voicemail buzzes in agreement. 

He pushes his way up to the bar and leans over the edge, waving a hand.

“Pam!” 

“Yeah, yeah, Wesson. I’ll get you a drink in just a sec.” The bartender says as she rushes past, hands full.

Sam snorts at her casual familiarity and stands back up. Pam didn’t believe his fake ID. That much had been obvious the moment he’d handed it over. He wasn’t sure why; it looked like a standard issue ID and even had his own photo. It had always held up everywhere else. But Pam had taken one look and leveled him with an amused expression and dismissive chuckle as she handed it back.. He’d braced himself for the denial, to be asked to leave at the very least, but she had simply asked him what he was drinking. 

He’s only been in town a few weeks and the club was the only place worth wasting away his conscious hours. He wasn’t about to question her generosity when it got him what be needed.

“Here, you can have my second shot while you wait.” 

Alarm bells start going off somewhere in the back of his head; annoying little warnings associated with self preservation or conscience or whatever bullshit it is that parents try to instill in their children so they can tell the difference between right and wrong, safe and not safe. Sam never really had parents to teach him such things, obviously. 

Now the uncomfortable, almost fearful feeling that crops up in these situations serves exactly one purpose and one purpose only. With an almost content sense of defiance he turns towards the dark haired stranger and takes the proffered tequila with a smile.

“Thanks,” he says and downs the liquor in one smooth motion without a second thought. It’s only after he’s swallowed it down, that he really takes stock of the man who offered it. Older, deep blue eyes and a bit of dark stubble defining his jaw. Attractive. Could be worse. As Sam pops the shot glass back down on the bar, the stranger follows suit and swallows down his own.

“You’re welcome. You looked like you could use it.” 

“That I could!” He agrees just as Pam delivers a double whisky to him before bustling off to the next customer. He holds up the glass a little, “That, and more. Cheers.” Sam downs the whisky about as fast as he did the tequila.

“Oh hey, Sam! Brady was looking for you.” Pam calls to him over her shoulder, waving a hand towards the side door. Sam nods and pushes away from the bar, giving the stranger a little departing wave before heading off where directed. 

***

Sam can feel the alcohol, and whatever else, just starting to hit his system as he slams through the club’s side door and out into the alleyway. It’s crowded, even out here. Everyone smoking or fucking or conducting business; party by proximity to the club.

It takes him less than a second to spot Brady hanging out near the mouth of the alley. The guy looks more like he should be hosting all night keggers at an upscale fraternity rather than slinging molly and dope in back alleys but, then again, Sam’s not really one to talk. He winces at the unwelcome thought and closes the distance, smacking Brady lightly on the shoulder. 

“Hey man.”

“Sam!” Brady turns and greets him with a grin, face lighting up like he’s genuinely happy to see him. Probably is. Sam’s stomach churns but he leans into the discomfort.

“Pam said you were looking for me.” It’s not a question. It’s consent. Brady likes control and Sam’s ability to stay sane depends on keeping him happy. Brady could’ve waited for him to come running, begging and desperate, but he didn’t. He wants this to be a game, wants to watch Sam give into him. They both know the steps by this point. This isn’t the first time. It won't be the last. 

“Yeah,” Brady’s eyes gleam. “You owe me. Now, I let it slide last time cuz I like you so much. But if I remember correctly, your supply should be pretty much gone by now. Which means if your looking to score more any time soon...”

“I know.” Sam mutters but Brady just continues over him.

“...you need to pay up. Now.” He raises an eyebrow and waits for Sam’s response. Sam doesn’t even bother pretending to sigh and squirm in defeat. He’ll do what he needs to. It’s either this or find a new city. Again.

“I don’t have any cash, man.”

Brady’s grin turns sweet and dark. “That’s fine. I was kinda hoping you’d say that.”

Sam tries, and fails, not to think of a different face as he sinks to his knees.

***

Castiel flicks the ash off his cigarette and tries to ignore the wet sounds and sickly sweet tar stench surrounding him. He takes a second to watch the grey flakes float down to meet their end on the damp concrete below. He doesn’t smoke but it makes for an easy and believable excuse to be idly lingering outside the back of the club. When he finally looks back up at the boy - at _ Sam _\- overpowering, unadulterated need floods through him. 

Castiel has to have him; to own him, to feel how he sighs and squirms when Castiel finally crawls and claws his way inside that smaller body. He needs to know how beautiful Sam is when he sinks his teeth into his flesh. He isn’t sure how or why _ this _ boy will change anything, how taking him will quiet the voices and sate his need any more than the dozens that came before. But the moment Castiel had laid eyes on him in the crowd there had been no other option. It has to be him.

It takes everything he has within him to stay where he is; to not go over and bash the blonde man’s head up against the bricks, feel the snap of bone and gush of blood beneath his fingers. Disgust and envy drives the desire to do so just as much as possessiveness, yet the stark mental image still sends blood flowing south. Instead he takes a slow drag off of his cigarette and pretends not to watch. Even with the hefty dose Castiel slipped the kid, he has the time to wait and find a better opportunity to get him away from prying eyes. 

***

By the time Brady lets him pull off, the world is spinning in a way that’s just short of uncomfortable. He takes a moment to spit and breathe, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before dragging himself to his feet. When the ground jerks abruptly to the left, Sam shuffles sideways to keep his feet under him. 

“Jesus you’re a fucking mess.” Brady snorts as he zips himself back up.

Sam doesn’t bother replying. He focuses on getting a hand on the solid brick wall and uses it to guide himself the rest of the way up. When he gets there he gives up the fight to stand on his own and lets the wall hold him up instead; blessedly cold against his overheated back.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Sam.”

Brady watches him with a smug, knowing grin and waits until he’s more or less stable to toss him a small baggie. Sam manages to catch it against his chest as Brady turns and walks away.

Everything is already fuzzy, numbing out and sinking down. But despite all that, it's still tempting to pull out one of the little white pills and swallow it; add it to the mix and see what happens. Best case: he’d sleep like the dead straight on through to the next night. Miss the day entirely. Second best...he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. Either option works for him really. 

Before he’s even made a conscious decision one way or the other, the pills are being pushed deep into the safety of his pocket as his phone takes their place in his hand. 

This. This feeling isn’t an urge. It isn’t a drunken whim. This is different; stronger, harder to ignore. More tempting, more compulsive, more self-destructive than any of the drugs or fights or even the knife in his pocket.

This is a possession, and it’s everything he’s been running from. 

Despite the jittery panic that wells up to suffocate him and mentally rushing to list off every reason in the world why he really, truly _ does not _ want to do this, he can’t seem to do anything more than watch as he thumbs his way into the phone and navigate his way to the voicemail. 

A vaguely feminine electronic voice announces to the world that he has 30 new voicemails and his mailbox is full. There’s no way to know if the nausea that wells up is from the drugs or the dread, but it’s there all the same. 

“_ First voicemail” _

_ “SAM! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!” _

He flinches and hits the delete button. When the voice announces “Deleted” in response, it sends a wave of both relief and horror through him in equal measure. 

_ “Sam! Answer the damn ph-” _

_ “Deleted.” _

_ “Goddamnit Sam! Don’t do this! You need to come ho-” _

_ “Deleted.” _

_ “I’m not kidding, Sam. You can’t just disappear like this.” _

Sam’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears, he can see it throbbing in his vision. 

_ “Deleted.” _

_ “Sammy, please. We can work this out. You just gotta...It...It’s not that big of a- Just call me back.” _

_ “Deleted.” _

_ “Sam,” _ the gruff voice that comes through the phone this time gives him a start. _ “It’s Bobby. Now I don’t know what kinda trouble you boys have gotten your damn selves into but your brother is really worr-“ _

_ “Deleted.” _

Sam’s throat and eyes are burning. Bile slithering its way up into his mouth. He swallows and starts jabbing the delete button with too much force. Silencing the voices before he can indulge them and listen. _ Deleted. Deleted. Deleted. Deleted... _

He knew it would be bad. Knew the fallout would find him at some point. Somehow. His chest aches with guilt. With regret. With longing. A little taste of paranoia tries to convince him they’re right around the corner, now that he’s listened to their messages, here to drag him home. 

He comes to the end of the list all too soon, the most recent voicemail hovering just under his thumb. He isn’t sure if it’s homesickness or self harm, curiosity or self-imposed punishment but he hesitates a moment too long and allows Dean’s voice to hiss through the speaker again. 

_ “Sammy…” _ Dean’s voice wavers on the nickname, slurs a little in the beginning and crumples on the end. _ “Sam, I don’t bl...I mean...It’s not just...” _ Dean sighs and gives up on whatever incrimination he was attempting to say. Continues with _ “I just need you to call me, Sammy. I need us to be a family again.” _

A flash of heat floods through his veins and the glass screen shatters against the concrete, display going black as it bounces and skids to a stop a few feet away. Sam brings his heel down on it for good measure, feels it crunch under the force, before backing up against the wall, remembering his need for support. His ragged breathing does nothing to keep the bile from rushing back to the surface, bringing with it whiskey flavored vomit. Sam bends over to spew it all over the ground, less than a mouthful all told, grateful for the lack of anything substantial in his stomach. When the world tilts sharply again, he lets it take him, numbly feeling the meaty slap of his hip against the ground. 

***

Castiel drops his cigarette and smothers it under his heel. No one paid the kid’s outburst any attention and Castiel’s patience, his willingness for caution has run thin. When Sam collapses to the ground, Castiel breathes in a lungful of fetid air and closes the distance between them. 

He slows to a stop as the kid pulls himself up with a groan and slumps against the wall. This is where it could all go wrong. He furrows his brow, frowns. Tilts his head just enough. Readies himself to play the concerned, helpful good samaritan if needed. 

Before Castiel can say or do anything, the kid lifts his gaze from his shattered phone on the concrete just a few feet away and looks directly up at Castiel with glassy, empty eyes. 

“Your place or the alleyway?” _ Sam _ lets his head thunk against the bricks and winces on a delay.

Castiel lets the forced expression go. He doesn’t question Sam’s willingness. Doesn’t wonder about it. He steps towards the boy and simply takes the offered opportunity. 

“Mine.” 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to CC_Sestra, AzrielRose, and Outoftheashes for all of their help with and support for this chapter and story!! You all really are the best! 
> 
> Remember I said you could easily ignore the implied wincest if you wanted to?? Yeah....thats not the case anymore. I tried! I really tried to keep it low key background but Sam just couldn’t keep his shit together. 
> 
> Also...take note that the number of expected chapters went up.

Sam drifts. He fades. He’s not asleep, not unconscious, just floating in a sea of black as everything around him swirls. There’s nausea there too, but he’s too heavy to follow it to its conclusion. Thoughts come bubbling up to the surface of his mind without much form and dissolve like smoke at the slightest attention. 

Phantom sensations poke and caress and pinch at him all over; ethereal and fleeting. This makes it even more startling when real, solid fingers firmly grip his jaw and move his head for him. The sensation of movement is overwhelming enough, jarring in its speed, to force his eyes open and seek something solid to hold on to. 

Everything’s bathed in red; highlighting angles and creating even deeper shadows. The man’s face is jagged in this light. Harsher. Movement beyond the glass catches Sam’s focus and drags it away along with the passing cars beyond. They speed by in colorful, boxy blurs of all different shapes and sizes in a neat little line...

“Sam,” 

His name reverberates through his head and sucks his attention back into the car; to the person next to him. The sudden, vague sense of recognition sticks to the inside of his skull just long enough to feel important. Sam rallies every ounce of control he can muster to force his eyes to focus. With focus comes a small thread of panic. What's happening? Something’s not right. He doesn’t feel right. Maybe…maybe…

“_ Sam _.” 

His name sounds like a deep purr in his ears as the fingers on his jaw dig in harder, blunt and painful. He struggles a little. Gasps a heavy breath in through his nose and tries to keep his eyes open, tries to focus, to stay conscious. Everything is trying to melt away, to sink back down. When he blinks, the dark feels cool and comforting. Another low rumble from the voice and the last shred of his focus dissolves. His head swims a little and everything mercifully sinks back down into the black and heavy. 

***

His fingers drag along the angle of Sam’s jaw. Castiel prefers his playmates responsive; awake and aware of him and everything he does to them. Reactionary. He hadn’t been able to account for the drugs already swimming in the kid’s system. It’s an unfortunate hindrance, but at least its a temporary one. 

Total vulnerability has never appealed to Castiel before, but there is something new here he can’t quite put his finger on. Something that has him transfixed. There’s almost an innocence to Sam now. Beautiful and full of new opportunities. 

He traces Sam’s slack lips with his fingertips before shoving two inside, over teeth and a limp, dry tongue. There’s only a twitch of response across Sam’s face, a small confused furrow of his brow at the intrusion. Castiel withdraws a little, watching the pink flesh lightly cling to his skin on the retreat, before he shoves back in with a little more force than necessary. His fingertips hit the back of Sam’s throat and Castiel curls them, delving in just a little deeper. The small space fills with wet, choking sounds as the kid’s throat constricts around his fingers. 

This little taste of Sam, the feel and sound of him, the reactions Castiel is eliciting from him...it’s a heady thing. He gasps a desperate breath against the physical demand for more. The desire rages through his muscles, scorching his insides. Searing so strong it comes to a point where Castiel has to act; either withdraw completely or shove his whole hand down the kid’s throat, dislocating jaw and ripping through windpipe just to finally feel it. Own it.

Castiel swallows hard and pulls away, giving himself a rough, hard squeeze through his slacks instead. Time enough for more to come. He has both hands back on the wheel just in time for the light to turn green. 

***

A stinging sensation lingers over the side of Sam’s face, pins and needles prickling over cheekbone and jaw. He jerks back to half-awareness as the second blow lands, struggles mutedly to turn his head away, to lift his arms and protect himself. 

“There we go. Come on.” A voice coaxes from somewhere above as a few more, slightly softer, blows land. Peeling his eyes open turns out to be a mistake. Everything is unfocused and spinning as he’s rolled to one side and hauled up and out of the car. He struggles in a dulled panic and manages to get his feet on the ground, standing only with the help of the hand pressed against his chest, crushing him into the side of the car. Everything’s cold. Quiet. Thick plumes of white rise up into the dark above. 

The car rocks underneath him for a moment then he’s being lifted from one side, pressure digging in his armpit and everything feels _ so heavy _. He blinks slowly and the world doesn’t reappear on the other side.

“Sam,” a vigorous shake pulls him back into the cold. “you need to walk. Come on.” 

The ground doesn’t wait for him, begins to slide away under his feet and the sensation of falling is enough to get his body responding automatically, feet stumbling forward and taking some of his weight. It’s a transient focus; a never ending treadmill that he’s only occasionally aware of. Whenever he slips a little too far into blissful nothing, another stinging slap to the face or a stumble that threatens to send him sprawling jolts him back to consciousness. 

An eternity later all movement comes crashing to a stop. The dizziness he left by the car races back up to meet him as he gets pinned against a wall face first. The hard concrete is unyielding against his cheek and chest as a loud rolling crash fills his ears.

Then the wall is gone, falling away as he gets yanked backwards and twisted around into a large, open doorway. It takes a few seconds for Sam’s head to catch up with his body, rekindling the long forgotten nausea in a sloshing wave inside his head. His eyes register the large expanse of dark before him and the tiny island of amber light directly ahead. He has just enough time to take in the concrete pillars, random tools and materials littering the floor, and the metal workbench at the center of it all when the hands holding him up abruptly let go. 

Sam’s staring at the figure strapped down on the metal table, muffled screams just reaching his ears, as everything sways. He stumbles forward a couple of steps before losing his footing. Bright pain lances through his face, sparks behind his eyes, and everything stops. 

***

Castiel watches Sam collapse in a heap on the floor; hears the satisfying crack and snap of soft bones yielding to the harder surface upon impact. A little twinge of envy flutters in his gut, as if the floor just stole the first real taste of the boy from him. Castiel savors the emotion on his tongue, rolling it around his mouth like a sweet, as he slams the warehouse door shut once again. He secures the bolt and snaps the padlock into place before moving to check on Sam’s prone body. 

Strings of blood stretch between the boy’s nose and the concrete below when he lifts Sam’s head up by the hair. Probably a broken nose - maybe the cheek as well. Nothing detrimental to his needs. The girl behind him lets out a particularly wet, pathetic sob; a simultaneously alluring and grating reminder of her presence. 

Castiel licks his lips and considers the options before him. He’s never had two at the same time and he doesn’t have a solid plan on how to handle it. Or even, really, a reason for it. Every previous encounter has been a passionate, exhilarating experience. During. But once it was over and done with, he was always left with this nagging, hollow feeling. Something about it never quite...satisfied. It hasn’t been enough.

This would be. This time would be different. It had to be. He stares down at Sam’s bloodied face for another long second, thinking, before letting it drop. The kid’s too drugged to play with properly. For now.

They’ll have to wait. 

Taking a cleansing breath, Castiel stands and strolls over to the girl. She creates a beautiful view laid out before him as she is. Her pale skin and cornsilk hair nearly shine in direct contrast to the gloom. The handcuffs wrapped around her wrists and ankles spread her wide across the table, pulled tight and digging into tender, chaffed flesh. Exposing all of her to the cold air and Castiel’s scrutiny. The gag in her mouth is damp darkened and he feels the stab of need for her renewed. It's muted, now that there is the option between her and Sam, but it's there all the same. 

His eyes trail back to the unconscious boy as need begins to shape form. An idea beginning to bloom. Having a witness, someone observing what Castiel does as he plays with the girl first, experiencing it anew through Sam’s eyes. And then, once she’s finished, he can taste those reactions directly from the source. A thrill flares through Castiel at the mere thought.

He licks his lips again and looks sidelong at the girl. It could be hours before the boy is conscious enough for that though…but that doesn’t mean he can’t play lightly while they wait…

The girl’s sobs turn into screams as Castiel runs his fingers along the wet gag with a smile.

***

_ “Sam?” _

_ He stares down at the blood on his hands in wonder. The thin skin over his knuckles is split open and oozing, sliding down the side of his wrist to mingle with the blood already smeared there. His hands throb with a delicious ache that spreads up his arms and into his chest. The muscles in is core are sore from use. His head is pounding. It's almost enough. _

_ Sam looks up at his brother and drinks down the craving for more. The grunts and curses still ringing in his ears. _

***

Castiel lightly brushes his lips across the small expanse of warm, soft flesh before him. Watches the skin react to his touch; goosebumps rising up in his wake, fine hairs reaching out. He feels the muscles twitch and jump under his hands. He presses down, digs his fingers in, and prevents any squirming from getting out of hand. Opening his mouth to breathe warm air across the now sensitized area is a practice in denial, in self control. The tension in his jaw is aching and only builds further when the scent of the skin fills his mouth; a dizzying mixture of salt and the soft traces of some floral body wash, accented slightly with the stale tang of sweat despite the cold. Saliva floods his mouth and he swallows before placing his teeth lightly against the skin. There’s a muzzled shriek from up above, still sounding more defiant than fearful. Something he's about to change. 

The table shakes slightly under her straining attempts at escape. The thigh under his hands tries, but ultimately fails, to buck him off. Castiel feels the ache in his teeth sharpen. Carefully, gently, he slowly increases the pressure, feels the skin bubbled up between his teeth. The imitation of a lover’s caress. A nip. He shakes with the restraint within the act of pulling away just enough to watch the white lines of pressure fade into pink before disappearing entirely. Watching them do so finally shreds the last remnants of his calm and control. He draws a shaky breath in through his nose and lets himself give in. 

***

There’s something that pries Sam’s eyes open. He lays there staring at the wide, grey expanse of concrete spreading out to the horizon, disappearing into the night, and can’t figure out why. The amber light needles its way into his brain and his face feels embedded with razor wire. But it's blunted; numbed out just enough to not really matter. It’s his eyes that are the problem. They’re gummy against the cold. Puffy. He wants to sleep. All he wants to do is close his eyes and drift away. He blinks a couple of times, hoping that at some point it’ll stick but it doesn’t. The muscles seem repellent to the idea and there’s an increasing urge to move building in his chest and spreading out through his bones. A drive to do...something, but he can’t remember what. The very thought makes him feel preemptively ill. 

Moving is absolutely the last thing he wants to do.

When a suffocated sound cuts through the silence, it has Sam doing just that before he can really register why. The sound continues on for a few seconds, ragged and guttural before sputtering out. Rising up onto his hands and knees, Sam heaves, splattering the concrete beneath him with bile and spittle. He takes a few too sweet breaths, feeling suddenly much more comfortable, before stumbling to his feet. 

Now that he’s focused on it, the room is far from silent. Quiet, furtive sounds reach out to him from the dark; dulled metallic impacts, the slap of skin, ragged labored breathing. It's a low level din in the quiet. 

Letting the noise guide him, he leaves the small island of visibility and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dark beyond. When they do, when it registers, Sam just stops and stares. He remembers the workbench now; now that he’s staring at it, tucked away as it is just outside the circle of light. It’s not even that far from where he’d woken up. He watches the writhing form on top of the table for a few heartbeats and feels an old, familiar craving spreads through his bones, his gut roiling in a way that has nothing to do with nausea or drugs.

Sam shuffles closer to the edge of the table, transfixed by her straining features, her messy blonde hair. There’s an unreal, dream-like quality to the scene before him and it isn’t a small part of him that wonders if this is all just a drug induced fantasy. A hallucination. The very idea seems to take seed, edging the feeling of need over into something a little more true. Something Sam’s worked hard to deny ever since he started running from it. The girl shudders, throat muscles straining as she lets out a moan that drags Sam even closer. At this distance, Sam can see the light freckles that dust her features, so delicate that they’re barely even there. It’s too much. He swallows a mouthful of nothing and just watches her twist on the table with a strange sort of disconnection. 

When the girl’s eyes flutter open, they’re a deep blue and he feels a sense of disappointment sink in his chest. There’s a desperate, watery panic in her expression when she notices him hovering by her side before a light clicks on somewhere behind her eyes. There’s a brief second of shock before something like relief takes its place. Then she’s begging, the words rushed and unintelligible through the gag. And Sam just simply stares mutely for a moment, unmoving, before reaching forward to untie and remove the cloth.

The girls takes a desperate, gulping breath. He can see her trying to compose herself, gathering her strength and preparing herself to whatever might come next. Sam watches her progress with a hollow twinge of regret; unapologetic but regret all the same. 

“Thank you.” her voice rough and filled with poorly concealed fear. “Please..please help me! I don’t know where he went but, I-I need you to find a key, or - or some bolt cutters...anything to get these off me. Please! Hurry!”

He’s lightheaded. Hazy. There’s too much space in between his thoughts. It’s a feeling he knows very well; he’s high. And usually that means he can let go. He can escape. But this isn’t some squatters shack or a druggie’s apartment, or even the club; some place full of distractions that let him to do whatever he needs to to forget himself. No, this was an empty unknown somewhere Sam was dragged to, drugged unconscious, by a stranger. And Dean’s voice is still there ringing in his ears from that small taste he’d allowed himself after months of abstinence. Here, in this place, he can’t seem to avoid the thoughts and wants and memories. 

But with everything… he’s not exactly trying.

Sam doesn’t move, too pinned down by his thoughts and enthralled by the sight of blotchy, flushed skin that pulls his gaze away from her tear streaked face downward. She’s naked on the table. Skin unblemished other than the deep red of her thighs. From her golden pubic hair down to her knees, bite marks line the inside of each leg. Blood seeps from broken skin and puncture wounds, all shadowed by the promises of deep bruises to come.

“What’s your name?” He asks instead of moving. His voice sounds alien to his own ears. Its distant, but steady and sure. Moving his mouth reminds him of the pain in his face, but...it really is unimportant in this precise moment.

“I...m-my name is Jo…” She answers. She sounds uncertain, like she’s really trying not to read too much into his inaction, trying not to lose hope of him helping her. Of her getting away from here. Sam reaches one hand out slowly, eyes still fixed on the bloody bite marks, and brushes his fingertips over the closest one. Jo hisses and a shock runs through him. He pushes down a little harder, two fingers digging into the wound. 

The sound she makes isn’t a groan, isn’t a scream. It’s more like a prolonged grunt of pain.

“You fucking asshole! Get your fucking hands off me!” 

Sam feels a smirk tug at the skin of his nose and put pressure on his cheek. He doesn’t move his fingers but looks up at Jo’s face and is rewarded once again with the sight of blonde hair and light freckles.

“You remind me of my brother.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three will be posted very soon. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, thoughts and opinions are all greatly appreciated!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all of you that celebrate it! 
> 
> Here is the final chapter! A couple words of warning:  
Remember how I warned you all about graphic depictions of EVERYTHING in Chapter 1? Well here they are. This gets gross. This gets immensely wrong. This gets uncomfortably graphic.
> 
> We get close POV for Castiel here. Which means there are a few...very repulsive, repugnant victim-blaming predatory thoughts here that may be very triggering. PLEASE do not read this chapter if that might be a problem for you!!! 
> 
> Also! If you have listened to The Angel of Vine podcast, you are going to recognize some imagery that I used. It was just WAY too perfect not to do so. If you haven’t listened to the podcast yet, no worries. There are no spoilers herein. 
> 
> Let me know if there are any tags I need to add or remove. 
> 
> Okay! Thats all I got! Hope you all enjoy!

When the sound of Sam rousing from unconsciousness had reached Castiel’s ears, it had been a relief. The slow build up, the exertion of self-denial and careful control had begun to wear thin; the pent up energy eating away at his patience. Sam finally being awake meant he could give in. String the kid up all pretty and follow through with his plan. Finally satiate - truly satiate - his needs with abandon in a way that would actually stick this time. All he had needed was for Sam to draw near. 

But when Sam had stumbled his way into view, the entirety of Sam’s focus consumed by the girl bound to the table between them, restraining the kid abruptly became less of an immediate priority. Sam was still drugged, that much remained obvious by the wobble in his gait and glassy-eyed expression, but there was a yearning there in his body language that stopped Castiel up short. It wasn’t fear or panic or even worry painted across his face; it was something painful and dark. Something primal. A hunger Castiel knows well, still in its infancy, and it makes Sam infinitely more interesting. And Castiel increasingly cautious. 

Suddenly, seeing what Sam would do if left unimpeded was marginally more important than Castiel’s immediate desires…for the moment. So he’d summoned up the last few ounces of self-control needed to extricate himself from between the girl’s legs and move out of the way, giving Sam space and the illusion of privacy.

Castiel stands, silent and unseen, just a few feet away and stares at Sam with an unprecedented amount of wary curiosity. He licks his lips. Savors the thick metallic taste still lingering there and waits.

Whatever Castiel had expected to happen, whatever he might have anticipated ...it hadn’t been this.

He’s watching Sam teeter on the edge of a decision, more toying with an idea slow to form than struggling with uncertainty. He watches him remove the gag and talk with the girl. Watches Sam feed her the possibility of hope, only to shatter it indifferently as he fingers the imprints left by Castiel’s teeth. 

The moment Sam makes his decision, he doesn’t hesitate. He isn’t gentle and, much to Castiel’s surprise, this certainly isn’t a fumbling first time or a moment of impaired judgement. Sam is intentional. There’s a passion and urgency there; this is anything but tentative. Sam hooks his forearms under the girl’s knees and roughly yanks her down towards the end of the table, ignoring her cries of pain and string of curses as the handcuffs cut even deeper into the raw skin of her wrists.

Then Sam is pulling himself out and lining up, shoving his way inside the body beneath him in one hurried snap of his hips. Just the sight of it has all of Castiel’s muscles twitching in sympathy. When Sam bottoms out, he doubles over with a hitching sob that shakes through him like a shock. He gulps down a few steadying breaths, fingers blanched white digging into thin hips, desperately holding on as he pulls back and slams back in. 

Neither of them are paying much attention to the recipient of Sam’s attentions as he begins to fuck in earnest; Sam’s too focused on whatever fantasy he’s obviously playing out and Castiel’s too focused on Sam. 

***

Sam sinks into the tight, wet heat clamping down around his cock. No matter how hard he pushes, feeling his pubic bone ram painfully into pubic bone, skin tingling...it's nowhere near enough. He gasps and shudders at the physical stimulation but he knows that this isn’t what he really needs. What he really wants. It’s not going to be enough to get him there because it never is. He knows this, yet he keeps trying away; fingers clawing into bucking hips, he listens to the sharp grunts and shrieks echoing through the room. On a particularly brutal thrust, he feels the head of his cock bump up through the thin stomach beneath his hands and it sends a cascade of stinging pleasure rushing down his spine. 

And it’s definitely not enough.

His vision blurs with tears as he continues to try, harder and harder, to satisfy the need for something that isn’t there. The futility of it has anger boiling up through the haze of drugs and pleasure and he feels utterly helpless in the face of it. It stops his thrusting. It stops his breath. He shakes under the intensity of it and lashes out with fists and clawed fingers, feeling soft flesh give under his onslaught. The sounds of pain and blunt impacts feel unjustifiably right in their wrongness. He aches everywhere, and that feels right too. It’s perfection born of their circumstances; why not give in to it?

Closing his eyes, he’s drudges up the memory of sharp green eyes and plump, full lips. Of easy muscles sliding beneath freckled skin and the scent of cheap soap and engine grease. He clings desperately to the mental imagery as he shoves his flagging erection back into place, but the sensation is so instantly wrong that it breaks the illusion he was striving for. 

Sam folds over with a choked off sob. He needs this. He needs something before it’s all gone for good. He grinds down into Jo, still chasing the sensation despite how every part of reality contradicts the fantasy. He closes his eyes against the soft skin he’s pressed into and imagines Dean; green eyes clouded over with lust, sweat beading across his skin. Dean bending him over to grope his ass, reaching around to stroke his cock.

The moan that crawls up Sam’s throat erupts as a choked off gasp as a hand, real and live and roughened by callouses, wraps around the base of his neck with an iron tight grip and pins him in place. 

  
  


***

The sights, the sounds; it’s all too overwhelming, too alluring, to just sit back and let it continue to happen. That's not what he wants. This isn’t what Castiel brought Sam here for. This isn’t why he strapped that girl down to that table. They aren’t here for their enjoyment, for their needs. They are here for his. 

Castiel strips off each article of clothing, heedless of the intense cold. He doesn’t rush. His eyes never leaving Sam’s form writhing fruitlessly atop the girl. If one didn’t know better, her piercing screams and hitching sobs could almost be mistaken for cries of pleasure with how they crest and ebb in time with each punishing stroke of Sam’s cock. 

Everything in Castiel aches. He’s jittery with excitement and there’s a simmering rage bubbling under his skin at the unexpected turn of events, at the wait, even if it was worth it just to see what would happen. Even if it ended up being more enticing than Castiel had even hoped for.

Castiel drops his clothing safely off to one side of the room and quietly closes the distance between them. He doesn’t think, doesn’t plan. Sam is an unknown, vulnerable enough to control but with an obvious propensity to violence; it’s a variable Castiel isn’t sure how to handle just yet. The one thing he does know, the one thing that matters, is that the end result will ultimately be the same. Which means that right here, right now, it's just about what he wants in this moment. So he acts on instinct instead of planning. He acts on need. And by the time he silently steps up behind Sam, there is no doubt or hesitation within him about what it is he wants. 

There’s no indication that Sam saw his movements, that Sam knows he’s there; too pathetically, beautifully engaged in his own acts to notice that there is anything else in the world. 

Castiel manages to get a firm grip on the back of Sam’s neck and pins him down where he’s bent over the girl. Her screams and frantic begging stutter to a halt for half a second of confusion but renew in earnest the moment she sees him looming behind her abuser. He ignores her. So does Sam. 

Grabbing the waistband of Sam’s jeans and boxers he tugs them down over slim hips and drops them, letting them pool on the floor around the kid’s shoe-clad feet. Goosebumps race across exposed skin and toned muscles twitch and jump in anticipation. When Castiel pulls Sam’s hips back into a better position, he doesn’t struggle to get away or prevent what’s about to happen. Instead, Sam arches his back, willingly pushing into where Castiel wants him. Displaying. Offering. To his surprise, the willingness doesn’t bother him quite as much as it should. 

Readjusting his grip on the kid, keeping him in place, Castiel reaches around Sam into the space between him and the girl. Despite her supposed lack of interest and vehement protests, there's plenty of slick lubrication to gather up between her legs. Her insides are hot and wet and clench around him as she squirms and screams as much as her restraints and the heavy weight on her stomach will allow. When his fingers and palm are sufficiently coated he withdraws from her and moves back so he can smear the mess across Sam’s hole, circling it a few times to get it spread around. Without any more warning than that, he rams two fingers inside the kid and is rewarded - at last - with a sharp, distressed cry. Sam doesn’t open his eyes but he does briefly try to scramble away from the much too rough fingering. Castiel doesn’t let him, keeps the kid solidly in place as he works his fingers in and out of the trembling body at his mercy, at the pace he wants.

“Oh fuckfuckfuckfu-mmmm” Sam’s whimpers are nearly lost to the warm body his face is buried in.

Castiel’s temperature spikes, sweat breaking out over his scalp and back, muscles clenched painfully tight. He’s thrusting his arm harder and harder, chasing after a release that isn’t going to happen like this but is no less pleasurable for that fact. Impatience still wins out. He pulls his hand out of Sam and releases his neck in favor of grabbing onto his hip instead. Lining himself up, Castiel suppresses a shudder that rolls through him finally giving his dick the attention its been demanding for far, far too long. Sam manages to haul in only a single, stunted breath before Castiel is pressing the head of his dick against Sam’s hole with much too much force. He has a moment to enjoy the sweet ache of pressure and stimulation twisting up through his core before the tight ring of muscles give way and swallows him up whole. The moment the flared head pops into the kid’s body, Castiel slams all the way in to the hilt in one long thrust. The breath from Sam’s lungs gets shoved up and out of his throat with the force if it. And Castiel doesn’t stop until his balls slap against the kid’s ass. 

He takes only a second, once fully sheathed in searing hot flesh, to adjust to the sensation before he’s sliding back out until only the head remains inside, being squeezed viciously tight. Then he’s ramming back inside only to do it all again immediately. And again. And again. Each thrust forces a grunt from Sam’s throat and shoves him further up on the table. The girl’s screams have tapered off into wracking sobs that shake the table out of rhythm with Castiel’s fucking. The crying isn’t as intoxicating as the screaming was, but it still has his dick throbbing inside Sam.

At some point unknown to Castiel, Sam stopped holding still and started pushing into his thrusts, meeting him halfway; increasing the pace and force of their movements. There’s a moment where he’s abruptly removed from the pleasure he’s taking out of the kid’s body, out of the girl’s sobs, suddenly focused solely on Sam’s movements. On Sam arching his back and pushing into him; on his hands clawing into the girl’s soft flesh with enough fervent pressure to leave marks behind. 

It almost kills it for him and he has a second to wonder if this isn’t what he’s looking for afterall. He can feel the pleasure waning; he can feel the searing urge to tear and rend welling up in its place instead. The jittery energy is only growing more intense, demanding more than a mere fucking. He’s almost ready to pull out and change tactics, indulge in blood and pain before giving into this kind of lesser desire. 

***

Everything hurts. There’s not enough slickness to smooth the way, not enough prep to make it comfortable. It’s rough and its tearing him to shreds inside and out and nothing could be more perfect. This isn’t the first time he’s attempted to feed this desire within him; to bring to life some aspect of the fantasy through piecemeal encounters. It’s never enough to sate him, but it had always been just enough to keep him level. Before. Like the drugs had done after. 

But he’s never been able to experience it like this. He’s been fucked before, sure; chasing the fantasy or a high or to get himself out of trouble, but it’s always been this paltry, tepid thing. Something lacking. This - This is taking pleasure without mercy. It’s ferocious. Vicious. Greedy. All focused on him and it hurts exactly like he needs it to hurt. Like it would hurt. It’s not a hard leap to compare the large hands gripping his hips to Dean’s hands. The calluses there. The ragged breath as quiet, wrathful disgust. Dean wouldn’t been nice. He wouldn’t be sweet. He’d take his repulsion and pity and loathing out of Sam’s hyde and he needs every ounce of it he can get. It’s what he deserves.

Sam screws his eyes up good and tight, keeps the breath locked away in his chest. He fucks himself, rough and needy, on Dean’s cock with everything he has. His muscles tense and ache and shaking with the effort; with the craving of it. Hands clawing for purchase. The haze is clearing just enough for the thought to weedle its way into his brain that this may be his last chance to indulge in this feeling and it only serves to make every sensation that much more desperate, that much better. 

It’s an easy illusion to maintain but for one discordant detail: the girlish wracking sobs echoing their every grunt and moan. She’s still writhing under him; still struggling to get away, hitching inhales between hysterical cries, as if she hasn’t yet realized that neither one of them will ever see outside this room ever again. He struggles to ignore it. To push the interruption away and focus on what really matters. He’s reveling in the lie; immersed in what he’s feeling, what this could have been and could never be. Dean is splitting him open on his cock. Fucking him bent over a table because that’s how Sam wants him.

A particularly jerky thrust has Jo announcing herself again with a sharp, watery cry. And it’s one distraction too many for Sam. Without opening his eyes or moving more than he has to, Sam reaches up and wraps a hand around her delicate throat and chokes off the noise, stops the disruption so he can sink back into himself. He feels her swallow, hears a rasping breath but not much else. She tries to throw him off, head shaking side to side, torso twisting the scant inches allowed to her. Frustration and rage bubble up from under the pleasure, flooding his insides until he’s near vibrating with it. He lifts his torso up as much as his position will allow and applies more pressure against the windpipe under his palm until all ruinous sounds cease. He can feel her reflexive swallow and the struggle and failure to draw breath. 

He’s barely managed to silence the distraction when the hands wrapped around his hips suddenly dig in even harder, fingernails slicing into his skin, and the cock in his ass changes angle, ramming into him harder and faster, more fervent than before. The stretch burns and he feels full to bursting. His own abandoned cock rubbing against the cool table, nudging up against the warm body under him with every punishing thrust. Searing pain and pressure and pleasure all twisting together to hum under his skin. Its nearly euphoric. He clenches his teeth and shakes under the onslaught, desperate to come but kept just away from the edge. When the angle changes again, stroking up against his prostate, Sam can’t keep the moan from clawing its way up his throat and out of his mouth. 

“Oh fuck, Dean!” 

Sam doesn’t remember feeling the hand on his left hip disappear. Too focused on what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. But he sure as fuck notices when fingers thread through his hair, grab hold by the roots and haul him upright. With his legs pinned against the table, Sam has no choice but to bow backwards, hands scrambling to find support under him until that's no longer an option. The new position forces a deep curve in his low back, ass out and shoulders back and it does nothing at all to break the spell. The burning slide in and out of his ass slows but doesn’t stop as lips and hot breath brush against his right ear. A shiver floods down his spine. He’s never been this painfully hard. 

“Sam,” the foreign, gravelly voice of the man behind him reverberates through his skull. “If you’re going to be screaming anyone’s name, it’s going to be mine.” 

Sam has the incredulous thought that he doesn’t know this man’s name and his stomach fills up with panic. His eyes fly open to stare at the deep blue darkness of early morning as reality reasserts itself into his consciousness. Injuries throughout his body light up like fireworks through the pleasure at the reminder that this is not home. This is not Dean. This isn’t a normal encounter.

Deciding it knows better, Sam’s body simply bypasses his brain and starts to fight back all on its own. Hands blindly grasping at the one holding him up by his hair, legs flexing to push back from the table succeeding only to impale himself even further. Despite the fear he’ll never admit to crawling through his veins and the struggle, he’s still hard, cock bobbing up toward his stomach with every movement the other man makes, head deep red and shiny with precome. He feels a deep chuckle rumble against his back that goes straight to his dick.

“Tell me you understand me, Sam.” 

The command is punctuated by an agonizingly slow, smooth thrust and he chokes down a sob and merely nods. He feels the breath disappear with a sudden chill. Goosebumps spread down across his chest and shoulders, nipples hardening into itchy pebbles, as lips drag along the curve of his neck. And still with the slow, solid fucking into him. His heart is rabbiting in his chest, lungs heaving. When Sam’s throws his head back, his body’s attempt at securing his release, the restraint shifts from a fist in his hair to a hand wrapped around his throat. His brain helpfully supplies the memory of how it felt to choke off Jo’s air and Sam decides that that memory isn’t any help at all. 

When teeth lightly drag across the skin where his neck transitions into shoulder, Sam knows what's about to happen before it does. Fear lights up in his stomach, writhing like eels, a moment before he feels the teeth clamp down around the meat of his neck. There’s a moment of resistance and then the man’s jaw clenches and the soft tissue gives way under bone; bright, sharp pain radiates through Sam’s head as the pain funnels down through his guts and is pulled straight out of his body through his dick. Sam comes hard with a choked off sob. Muscles seizing, pleasure whiting out the pain; the orgasm keeps crashing through him in waves until it feels like he’s drained dry. 

A second bite pierces through his skin into the meat underneath and bursts through the pleasure, cutting off the aftershocks and post-orgasm haze. The teeth withdraw with a wet suck to the wound and then he’s being slammed face down onto the table again. His head hits Jo’s body with a meaty smack and his face throbs anew. His neck and ass burn. He’s cold and soaked in sweat and he wonders at Jo’s silence and stillness under him. A new kind of horror starts to creep into his mind at that thought but it’s only able to survive for a moment as the man behind him - the man who followed him at the club, the man who drugged him - begins to fuck him in earnest. 

Suddenly the lack of prep and proper lube becomes infinitely less desirable. Sam sobs and struggles. His brain makes peace with the inevitability of the situation even if his body doesn’t. Sam reminds himself, even as his heart tries to shatter his ribs in an attempt to escape, that this is what he wanted; that he doesn’t care. This is better. His nerves are being stripped bare and electrified as the speed and intensity of the man’s thrusts ratchet up to a fevered, animalistic pitch. Despite every neuron firing off the blaring alarm to fight, to make it stop, to get away ...Sam steps away from it and lets it run its course. This is what he deserves, remember? 

The man’s fingernails claw through the skin of his back, dig into his neck and hip. There’s another bite to the thin skin along his back ribs that tugs worse than the rest, and then the man’s hips falter. Stuttering, half-aborted thrusts continue to rock into Sam until the cock in his ass slams to the hilt and he feels hot come flood into him. 

Then there’s silence. Nothing but the white noise of their ragged, gasping breaths.

***

Castiel doesn’t wait for his own aftershocks to subside. He pulls out and takes a step back to admire the sight of thick white come and blood well up and ooze out of Sam’s body. He swipes a finger through it, the boy’s muscles jumping in defence, and leans over to shove the fluid into Sam’s mouth. Making him taste them together. Sam doesn’t move, doesn’t react other than to swallow, and Castiel stands there and considers him. 

He’s still thrumming with need. He isn’t finished; fucking isn’t what he’s really after. He needs more. There’s a dawning realization the longer he stands there that, as much as he wants to devour Sam, he’s reluctant to tear into him more than he already has. This time. It’s a disconcerting sentiment, this reluctance. 

But it’s something for another time. He’ll figure it out later. 

Slamming his hand down on Sam’s backside just to hear the kid yelp again, Castiel steps away.

“Get off the table,” is all he says to the kid. 

Sam looks over his shoulder at him, a clear eyed fear that's entirely pleasing painted across his discolored face. Castiel doesn’t repeat himself. He merely points to the floor away from the table and watches as the boy stiffly, mutely obeys him. As intoxicating as Castiel’s pleasure in it is unsettling. 

With the table free and clear, and arousal still thrumming through him, demanding fulfillment, Castiel turns to the girl still tied down. Sam choking her into unconsciousness had been an unexpected, potently exhilarating turn of events. She may not be able to anticipate what Castiel is about to do, but it should mean her first screams will be that much more profound.

He grabs the key to the handcuffs from the small stack of supplies by the head of the table and unlocks the girl’s wrists and ankles. Once unrestricted, he grabs ahold of one arm and one leg and pulls her closer to him before flipping her over. She doesn’t wake with the manhandling, but she is breathing. 

With the girl face down on the table, pale naked skin unmarked and smooth in the dim lighting, Castiel locks the handcuffs around her limbs once again and cinches them even tighter. Spreading her wider across the table without any slack to struggle; she’ll be able to shake her head but that's about it. Once satisfied with the restraints, he bends down again to grab his scalpel and bone saw. He places the saw between the girl’s legs for later use and kicks an empty plastic tub he had nearby into place on the floor at her feet. 

Castel holds the scalpel between his thumb, first and second fingers and finds the first thoracic spinous process with his other hand. He spares Sam a glance before placing the scalpel against skin. The kid is watching him, eyes round and face puffy. He doesn’t look scared and Castiel feels a confusing twinge of pleasure and curiosity at that. Then without any further distracting thoughts, Castiel makes the first blissful incision and screams break out into the quiet.

***

Sam sits slumped against one of the support pillars, body throbbing and freezing, and watches Jo’s body be rent apart. The man makes one long cut from her neck down to the swell of her ass. It takes a second for it to happen but soon blood is pouring over the edges of the wound. Staining her skin red and draining onto the table. It’s more blood than Sam has ever seen at once and there is a strange lightheadedness that comes over him. This must be what queasiness feels like. 

She doesn’t die. Not right away. She shocks awake with a lung bursting scream that hurts Sam’s ears to listen to and she bleeds all the faster for it; it drips off the end of the table into a clear plastic tub with a sound similar to rain on a tent. She doesn’t pass out. Not even as the man cuts deeper and deeper into her body, peeling back skin and bloody chunks of meat. Excavating a living body with expertise. Long before the bone saw is in his hand, her screams and straining devolve into coughing gasps and then silence as her eyes glass over. 

Sam feels flushed as he watches the man work. As the bonesaw lowers into the ruin of the girls back, just out of Sam’s line of sight from his place on the floor, the darkness mercifully rises back up to swallow him before he can hear the saw doing its work.

***

Sam wakes to a world stitched together with pain. His throat is dry and sore. His nose feels heavy and so swollen he can’t breathe through it. His head has that deep cottoney ache that's directly connected to his gut. It’s a nausea he knows well; the kind that only comes from a combination of injury and hangover. A crisp, white light invades the safety of his eyelids and it doesn’t take much extrapolation to tell that moving anything isn’t going to be fun. 

He’s cold. Too cold. And whatever he’s lying on isn’t at all forgiving. 

He stays as still as he can and tries to remember what happened. He remembers the club and Brady’s face comes swimming to the surface of his aching brain. Did he overdose? Get in a fight? There are too many blank spaces to be sure. He’s not unaccustomed to gaps in his memory these days but with this level of pain, and something in his gut urging him to focus, the lack of knowledge is worrisome.

With the pain building to be too much to sit still through and a full bladder demanding his attention, pain or not, Sam finally tears his eyes open and regrets being alive. The light pouring into his eyes feels like shards of glass being ground into his brain and his groan turns into a sob and he uses stiff muscles to roll on to his side.

He takes a moment to catch his breath and brace himself, eyes closed for a moment, before he tries again. This time the light hurts a little less and he manages to struggle up onto his knees and then to his feet. His equilibrium threatens to fail on him but it evens out after a second of staring at the floor and placing a hand on a nearby pillar. Then he risks glancing up at the rest of the room and feels his stomach plummet. His limbs turn to jelly.

He remembers. 

The earlier parts of the night...Brady, how he got here ...those are all fuzzy blurs that refuse to become clearer. But the last half of the night is vivid and starkly detailed against all the rest. The drugs had been fading by then. 

The part of his brain that avoids looking too closely at his desires wants to try and blame his actions - and inaction - on the drugs...but he can’t. He knows he can’t.

The room is too clean. Everything in the room is how he remembers it but there is no blood to be seen. No body. No dark haired, blue eyed man looming nearby. Only the strong smell of ammonia and gasoline and icy, winter air. There is a tiny seedling of hope that he was hallucinating; that he got drugged and fucked but there wasn’t any body of a girl that Sam had helped to terrorize for his own selfish needs. Maybe the drugs weren’t simply roofies, as he had thought. 

A mechanical click and whir has Sam looking around the room, slowly, and feels his heart sink down into his guts as he sees the man, now dressed as if for Sunday brunch, standing at the other end of the room. He has no idea where they are but the room is far larger than he realized. A warehouse maybe? Doesn’t matter. 

There’s a drain in the floor not far from where Sam woke up and he shuffles over to it to relieve himself before pulling his jeans, still wrapped around his ankles, back on. He doesn’t check the door. He doesn’t pull his knife out. The time for that has long since passed, even if he wanted to try. As clothed as he can be, Sam stiffly makes his way over to the man with a sense of passive, calm resignation. What he finds there only confirms that feeling. Resistance at this point it would be completely useless for more reasons than Sam cares to count out for himself.

Jo’s body is laid out on the floor, fully clothed in a pale blue dress more appropriate for summer. Her eyes are closed. Face tilted up to the cold light streaming in from the windows above. Her blonde hair and porcelain pale skin appear clean and remarkably unblemished. Her ankles are crossed and arms swept out slightly away from her body, palms up...she could be sleeping or resting there if it weren’t for all the rest. 

Under the dress, her chest and stomach are nauseatingly collapsed inward, as if something vital were missing there. The question of what isn’t hard to figure out. Long curved bones create long sweeping lines along the floor spreading out from her body. Blood - her blood - is splattered out across the concrete under the bones in controlled slashes and Sam can't help but remember the sound of blood hitting plastic at the sight. In a circle above her head are twelve spined bones. 

An angel; with her wings and halo.

The effect is absolutely stunning and horrifying. Sam’s first dead body and even as nausea and a dizzying rush of lightheadedness tries to overtake him, he can’t make himself look away. 

The man shifts to one side of the body and takes a picture, the camera whirring as it spits out a polaroid photo of his work. Sam backs up to the nearest wall and slides his way down to the floor, reminding him of the bite mark decorating his back. The man turns then, waving the developing photo with one hand, and cocks his head to the side as he seems to consider him. Some primal part of Sam valiantly tries to muster up some fear but simply putters out and dies from exhaustion and neglect. It’s really for the best. 

Dragging his gaze away from the corpse, he meets the blank gaze staring down at him. Sam licks his dry lips with an even drier tongue and swallows down air under the scrutiny. With a quick breath he asks the question he doesn't need the answer to but is hanging between them anyway.

“Are you going to kill me?”

Sam’s voice is steadier, stronger than he would have thought given the state of his throat and the question is met with an even more unnatural tilt of the man’s head. His brow furrows, blue eyes squint; he seems to hesitate before finally answering. 

“I don’t know,” the man pauses again, the tilt of his head increasing. “I haven’t decided yet.” 

It seems neither of them quite know what to do with the answer. Sam nods mutely and tries to understand what exactly that might mean, fighting down a sense of disappointment that the answer wasn’t just an outright yes. He can’t leave. He knows he can’t. So…?

A memory weasels its way into the forefront of Sam’s mind and sends of flash of inappropriate arousal coursing through him. He draws in a breath to ask and aborts before the words can leave him. He sits with uncertainty before trying again, forcing the question out before he loses the courage to do so.

“Can I..ummm...What should I call you?” 

A dark, knowing smile spreads across the man’s face at that and Sam feels the flash of arousal grow roots. This time when he swallows, he swallows down the tang of bile.

“You can call me Castiel.”

“Castiel?”

“Yes.” 

Sam nods and doesn’t know what to do with the information now that he has it. Well...that’s not true. The man- Castiel - had told him exactly what he could do with it. He pushes the thought away with a shiver and tries to focus on anything else. Castiel watches him, smirk never fading, for a moment longer before he turns away and Sam can breathe again.

Sam stares at the girl’s body again, finds himself marveling at the way the blood creates the suggestion of feathers spreading out from the bone wings. Another couple of photo clicks happen and Sam largely ignores what's happening around him. That is, until Castiel picks up a large jug of something and splashes the body with it’s contents. The scent of gasoline hits Sam like a truck. 

Pulling out a lighter, Castiel turns to him and motions for him to stand, before flicking the lighter to life and dropping it on the body. It takes a second to catch, but catch it does and Jo’s body goes up in a woosh of flame. 

Sam stands and watches the flames rapidly expand past the body, following lines of gasoline Sam hadn’t even noticed spreading out across the room. 

Castiel grabs hold of one of Sam’s arms and simply says “Come on” as he leads him to the door, unlocking it and letting them outside the room he was sure he’d never leave. Sam stands in the hallway and simply waits, feeling a strange sense of loss, as Castiel closes the sliding door back up and locks it from the outside. Grabbing Sam’s upper arm again, he escorts Sam down the stairs out of the building. Right where they left it the night before, Castiel’s car is waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, incoherent screeching, thoughts and opinions are all greatly appreciated!! 
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for sticking with this story. Hope to see you all when part 2 gets posted!


End file.
